


Air Ducts and Alcohol

by cerealkiller0



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Bruce Banner Needs a Hug, Clint Needs a Hug, Community: avengerkink, M/M, Tony is a mean drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-18
Updated: 2013-04-18
Packaged: 2017-12-08 19:55:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/765358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerealkiller0/pseuds/cerealkiller0
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Posted for this prompt: Unbeknownst to the others, Bruce and Clint have a 'panic room' in the tower. It's where the two of them, who grew up with extremely abusive, alcoholic fathers, hide out when Tony's really wasted. </p>
<p>This could be read as gen with a rather handsy, mean drunk Tony or as Bruce/Tony with a slice of onesided Clint/Bruce, depending on how firmly affixed your slash goggles are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Air Ducts and Alcohol

“Scars?” Clint asked, lazily flicking a card towards the empty chip bowl between them.

Bruce watched it land, unsurprised when it hit dead center. “Hmm?” He launched his own card, wincing when it caught the edge of the bowl and bounced back.

“Do you have any scars?” Clint clarified. He grabbed Bruce’s wrist, jamming a second card in his hand, before miming a flicking motion.

Bruce rolled his eyes good naturedly before attempting again. This time his two of clubs landed right next to Clint’s first card. He looked up to find Clint grinning widely at him.

“Not bad, Doc,” Clint praised; flicking the ace of diamonds to land atop Bruce’s two.

Bruce tentatively grinned back in response.

Clint passed him another card wordlessly and they tossed them in silence for several minutes. Bruce missed just as often as he made it, but found that the steady rhythm, along with Clint’s hand occasionally pressing warmly against his own, made the repetitive task more of a soothing than frustrating one.

Once the deck ran out though, the silence began to press in around Bruce. The air duct seemed much smaller and cramped than just moments before. He glanced at Clint, who suddenly seemed fascinated with the laces of his black combat boots.

Bruce sighed wearily and opened his mouth, but Clint cut him off before he could speak.

“I do.” Clint murmured. “Think my S.H.I.E.L.D. file says the jagged ones on my back are from the car crash, but it’s not…. The old man liked to use the buckle end of the belt.”

Bruce closed his eyes, willing unpleasant memories to stay buried. He shivered slightly, though their cramped hiding space was anything but chilly.

Clint continued. “Barney has it worse though. He tried looking out for me sometimes…”

Bruce’s mind immediately went to soft hands, caressing his face after another’s had dealt a vicious slap.

Clint continued. “Usually ended up being a pretty stupid idea. Protecting me, I mean. He’d end up getting it twice as worse for stepping in.”

Bruce made a wounded noise deep in his throat. The last time he saw his mother, her hair was almost maroon with all the blood matting it and her eyes had been so glassy. She’d only been trying to save him… He wouldn’t have needed saving if he weren’t such a freak. Such a monster…

“He’d end up with these fat cigar burns on really bad nights.” Clint said loudly. His voice echoed around the vents, jerking Bruce’s attention back to the present. “That smell. I can’t forget it. Kinda like burnt sausage mixed with rotten oak. Last time Tony lit up a Cuban I thought I was going to hurl.”

Bruce reflexively rubbed at the pads of his right third and fourth finger with his thumb. He didn’t have much feeling in either. Not since his father grabbed his wrist and forced his hand onto the stove before dinner one night. He’d only been eight at the time, but Bruce still remembered the copper tang of blood in his mouth after biting his lip nearly through. He’d learned by then that screaming or crying would only make things worse.

If Clint noticed Bruce’s small movements, he gave no indication. “The worst days were the ones when he got a hold of a bottle of bourbon. Pops drank whiskey normally and that made him mean. The bourbon though… Then he was unpredictable… Kind of. Well. Kind of like Tony.”

Bruce’s head jerked up at that, startled. “That’s not. I’m not…” He trailed off. He’d been about to say he wasn’t scared of Tony, but Clint’s far too understanding eyes were burning a hole clean through him. He couldn’t force the words past the lump in his throat.

“I don’t have scars.” Bruce forced out instead. “The Other Guy. Any… well. Surface stuff. That goes away when I change.”

Clint gave a grim approximation of a smirk. “And below the surface?”

Bruce flashed his own dark look. “Below the surface… Scars are the least of my troubles,” he replied flatly, avoiding Clint’s gaze. 

“I saw what happened with you two, you know.” Clint said softly, nudging as a loose bolt on the vent with his boot. “He shouldn’t have said that.”

“Sticks and stones,” Bruce sing-songed. He then snorted, self-depricatingly. “I’ve been called worse.”

“Probably not while the person insulting you is shoving a hand down your pants.” Clint contradicted.

If he hadn’t been looking for it, Bruce probably wouldn’t have noticed the hint of doubt shading Clint’s statement. “I haven’t been molested if that’s what your getting at, Barton,” he snapped.

“I didn’t say you were.” Clint replied evenly. “I just thought you’d be the last person to want another alcoholic in your life.”

“I can handle Tony,” Bruce insisted.

“Then why are you here?!” Clint burst out finally, frustratedly waved his arms around the air duct.

Far from being cowed, Bruce flashed him a lopsided grin. “Just the pleasure of your company, I’m sure.”

Clint frowned. He hated that smile. Bruce only used it when he was trying too hard to convince the world he was fine. He opened his mouth to make a harsh retort, but was cut off mid-word.

“Dr. Banner. Your lab space has cleared, should you wish to return to it,” JARVIS interrupted loudly on the intercom system.

Clint rolled his eyes. Of course the AI could find them in the air ducts. “Guess this means someone finally drunkenly passed out,” he muttered as he watched Bruce start to shimmy out of the open grate.

“Indeed, Mr. Barton.” JARVIS intoned.

Clint wasn’t sure if he was imagining the irritation in the computer’s voice. He doubted it though. He turned his attention back to Bruce, who was looking up at him from ground level.

“You coming down too, Cupid?” Bruce question, a teasing – though more genuine – smirk on his face.

Clint grinned. It wasn’t often Bruce made jokes about things the Hulk did. And that was most definitely the Other Guy’s nickname for him. “Nah, Big Guy. I think I’ll stay here for a while longer.”

Bruce shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Clint watched Bruce turn to leave. He probably wouldn’t see the man outside of the R&D labs until the next mission. Or Tony’s next bender, whichever came first. He couldn’t help calling down to him. “You aren’t a monster, Bruce. Not now. And definitely not when you were just a little kid.”

Bruce froze in the doorway, but didn’t turn back to face Clint. He spoke quietly, but with firm conviction. “You’re a good man, Clint. Your father didn’t deserve to have a son like you.”

‘Neither did yours.’ Clint wanted to reply. He held his tongue though, knowing those words would only fall on deaf ears. Instead he offered what he had.

An air duct. A pair of eyes. Understanding when Bruce needed it.

It wasn’t much. But it was far more than other 'friends' were offering.

Clint sighed as Bruce disappeared through the doorway, mumbling to himself. “I’ll see you next time, Bruce.”


End file.
